


New Perspective: The 211th Hunger Games

by timesphobic



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timesphobic/pseuds/timesphobic
Summary: Stop there and let me correct it, I wanna live life from a new perspective... When a virus breaks out, bringing District 2 to its knees, Panem enters an unprecedented era. District 2 hasn't managed to produce a volunteer for three years, crumbling beneath the weight of the Golden Flames. Will the titan District manage to regain their rightful throne? Or will despair prevail?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. New Perspective

**_Sarmiento Polar Torres, 22.  
_ ** **_Victor of the 203rd Hunger Games.  
_ ** **_March 21st, 208 ADD.  
_ **

* * *

District 2 was going up in flames, and all Sarmiento could do was watch it burn to the ground. 

Curled up in front of the TV, all he could do was watch as the Capitol scrambled to smooth things over, to assure everyone it was nothing, that the problem would be fixed in no time. But Sarmi knew otherwise, or at least he thought he did. He'd been in District 2 just a few months before, for a journalism piece about the Peacekeeping forces based there. There was a strange, uneasy air, which he supposed could've come from the disaster of Revan Allerix's Victory tour showing there. But there was something else boiling under the surface. Whispers of a sickness, a disease, something called khrusos ingnis- the Golden Flames. 

And so Sarmiento watched as the Capitol continued to scramble, trying to bear the weight of such a disaster, while the deaths and bodies inevitably piled up, more and more and more. That was until the President appeared after days of waiting, waiting for a shred of news or for the dam to break. 

And broke with a flood it did. 

President Snow said everything was okay, that the disease had caused a handful of fatalities but that they had everything under control. That they were locking the District down and evacuating those who they could get out to District 1. As for the rest who couldn't be pulled out, they were to stay behind, under the watchful eyes of the Peacekeepers. Everything was under control, and everything would be fine. 

But those were empty words, empty promises. Upon the announcement, the entirety of District 1 was plunged into chaos. Where the luxury District was once open and welcoming to those coming from District 2, they had now turned on their Career counterparts. There were whispers all across the gilded streets; what if they brought this virus with them? What if District 1 was infected as well? Riots broke out as the Capitol’s lapdog fought back for once, protesting the presence of these refugees and what they could bring along with them. 

And Sarmiento found himself in the middle of all of this, despite this not being his problem. But somebody had to document and report what was happening, and Sarmiento Polar Torres sure as hell wasn't just going to sit around and do nothing. 

Standing in the midst of a rioting crowd, notebook in hand, put things in perspective. District 2 had gone up in flames, and District 1 was going down with it. This was no place for a Victor, surrounded by those who were protesting against the very Capitol who gave him everything he had. And yet he remained; he stayed in the pressing crowd. He wasn't protesting, no, he couldn't be protesting. He was a Victor! He had a reputation to uphold. He simply found himself in the midst of these riots in the square time after time, beneath the harsh spotlights in the bitter cold, for some reason that he didn't quite know.

No. Sarmi knew why he was there, out in the bitter cold amidst the throngs of protestors. More than anything, he wanted answers, whether they were good or bad. Somehow, Sarmiento would get to the bottom of why District 2 had been brought to its knees. And search for answers he would, talking to anyone he could think of who may know something, documenting the process as he went. It wasn't likely that he'd get anywhere - if the Capitol wanted to keep its secrets, it would - but it was more the thought that counted. His search for answers consumed him, not letting him go for over three years. 

But, in the end the golden flames would be quelled, and District 2 would begin to put itself back together, but not without major losses. Over a third of their population contracted the virus and a quarter of the population was wiped out, and District 2 hadn't produced a volunteer since the year 207, meaning that for 3 years running now all of their tributes had died early, if not in the Bloodbath. It was a tragedy of epic proportions, to say the least. And it all still remained a mystery; nobody truly knew what happened. 

* * *

But getting to the bottom of that lingering mystery would have to wait a few days longer as he was currently running late to the Academy. They were supposed to be deciding the male volunteer, the one he'd be mentoring. And he was late, so late, in fact, that he couldn’t help making a fool of himself as he rounded the corner, hurrying through the large gateway of the training academy. Pushing through the clusters and crowds of trainers and trainees, he could tell they were all looking at him. It wasn't every day that an esteemed Victor ran through the training academy, especially on such an important day. He haphazardly turned another corner, finally arriving at the set of stairs he was looking for. Sarmiento, cursing internally to himself, bound up them, taking the stairs two at a time. His fellow Victors wouldn't let him forget this one, certainly not, he thought, as he burst into the viewing room. 

Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him, his fellow Victors; Isia Wayne, Constantine Leblanc, and District 1's most recent winner, Elysium Cullinan. 

"Oh, so you finally decided to show up, huh?" Isia said with a sharp laugh as she rose to her feet. 

"Did I miss anything important?" Sarmiento replied, panting for air as he took his seat next to Ellie. It had only taken Sarmiento seven years before he brought home a Victor for his District, and he still couldn't quite comprehend that Ellie was alive, there, right next to him. It only affirmed that he was doing something correctly as a mentor, which was a true blessing after all this time. 

"Nah, just the first couple sparring rounds, nothing too particularly interesting," Constantine responded gruffly, seeming annoyed about Sarmiento's tardiness. He knew Constantine would've berated him more if given the chance, but they had a tournament to pay attention to - well, more of a full-out battle. Rather than having trainees go up against each other one on one, the top ten trainees of each gender were split into two groups of five, each group forced to fight it out in a sort of brawl. Then, the winners of each group went up against each other, with the overall winner named the chosen volunteer for that year's Games. It was horrifically barbaric, but it worked well enough, and as it continued to produce the best volunteers, there was no sign of a change to the format anytime soon. 

Sarmiento barely had time to catch his breath before it was time for the first brawl of the afternoon, the first of the boys’ rounds. Sarmi sat taking notes on what weapon each boy wielded and how he fought. It wasn't anything too new, given that the fights were effectively the same rinse and repeat system that they’d been for years. In fact, Sarmi remembered his fight well, and it had been no different from the fight that he was watching, even though it had been nearly a decade ago. Soon enough a winner was decided, a boy by the name of Clifford Armani. He bowed in the general direction of the Victors and stepped out of the ring so the second fight could begin. 

This one was different, however. Rather than the cold, tense silence that usually blanketed these fights, broken only by the clashing of weapons and footsteps, this fight was accompanied by the soundtrack of a strange sort of chatter. It was emitting from one boy in particular, a particularly boisterous trainee named Chiffon Shivaan. He seemed to be joking and chatting as he easily dispatched each of his competitors. That was rather intriguing to Sarmiento, and definitely something to note, as it stood in sharp contrast to the more stoic, serious demeanors of the rest of the volunteer candidates. 

"That kid's something, isn't he?" Constantine called out to the group of Victors, pointing to Chiffon, who had just taken out his final opponent. Sarmiento could see the grin plastered on his face all the way from the viewing balcony, as the boy took a large, dramatic bow. "He's a cocky one. Seems like he'd be a nightmare to mentor." Constantine continued. 

"Well, he's obviously very skilled; he just took out all those other kids," Isia countered, leaning back in her seat. 

"Talent only takes you so far when you're cocky, Isia. You should know that by now." 

"We don't know if he's too confident yet though. We're only here to observe them fight," Sarmiento snapped. He was not in the mood for Constantine's antics this fine morning. Constantine had been a mentor for almost 30 years; he should know better than to judge based on nothing. He didn't even know the kid personally. 

"What do you know, huh? You're-" Constantine started, but was cut off by an unexpected voice. 

"So what if he's cocky? If he wins, he's the one we choose," Elysium piped up, speaking for the first time since Sarmiento had arrived that morning. He had just about forgotten she was there; she'd been quiet, most likely observing not just the trainees but also the other Victors. Constantine wrinkled his nose in annoyance but went quiet, watching as the two finalists faced up for the final fight. Unsurprisingly, the Shivaan boy came out on top of the second fight, taking out his fellow competitor gracefully, without even breaking a sweat or breaking off the incessant stream of words coming from his mouth. Chiffon let out a loud whoop as he was announced as the winner, cheering for himself with more vigour than any member of the surrounding crowd. Sarmiento watched as the boy bounced out of the training ring. 

"He's gonna be a handful for you two," Isia said, vocalizing Sarmiento's exact thoughts as she stood with a stretch. 

"That's fine. We can handle anything, right, Ellie?" Sarmiento responded, nudging his mentee with his elbow. Ellie opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Constantine stormed out of the room, muttering something about how stupid they were and how District 1 was guaranteed a loss if they let those kinds of people volunteer. The remaining trio watched as the door swung shut behind the older Victor. 

"Oh, well, _somebody’s_ in a bad mood today, huh?" Ellie said, breaking the silence with a snippy comment. Elysium wasn't usually the kind to say things of that sort, which caught Sarmiento off guard. 

"Oh, don't worry about that old grump. You two talk or whatever; I'll go speak to him," Isia said, snickering to herself as she followed suit, exiting the room. 

"Isia's right, it'll be fine. I won't let your first year of mentoring be complete garbage," Sarmiento said as he closed his notebook, shoving it into his bag haphazardly. "You know what you're doing. I'm not worried." 

"Thank you?" Ellie replied, her tone confused.

"You're welcome. Now let's get another Victor home, how 'bout that?" Sarmiento said with a smile, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stood. 

"Isn't that the whole point of all this?" Ellie replied, gesturing at the training floor before them. She was right, that was the whole point of the training academies: to bring Victors home. 

"Well, yeah. I gotta get going anyways. I'll see you tomorrow," Sarmiento said, patting his mentee on the shoulder before stepping out of the room. He felt good about this year. With District 2 out of their way, it was the perfect opportunity for District 1 to claim the crown of top Career District. These Games were going to be a cinch for 1; hopefully, there’d be some time in the Capitol to continue his investigation into whatever was going on in Two.

But nothing could’ve prepared Sarmiento for what his investigation would uncover. 


	2. Kiss of Death

**_Revan Allerix, 17._ ** **_  
_** **_Victor of the 207th Hunger Games._ ** **_  
_** **_February 19th, 210 ADD.  
_ **

* * *

Revan yanked the suffocating helmet off his head, discarding it haphazardly on the ground nearby. He slowly, achingly peeled off each layer of sleek black armour, throwing it on the ground much like the helmet as he rooted around in the piles of clothing surrounding him on the floor. Finally, Revan found some relatively clean clothes in the mess of the room. Changing quickly, he kicked the armour out of the way of the door, then grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the cluttered desk nearby and stumbled groggily back out into the hallway. 

District 2 was not a place Revan enjoyed. 

But at least he wasn't in the public proper; no, he was stuck in this fortress, deep within the Tombs, the nickname for the base to which he was assigned, buried deep beneath the rocky mountain peaks of District 2. It was suffocating, the stone walls pressing in around him. He'd never been particularly claustrophobic, in fact when Revan was younger he was always the smallest, the one chosen to cram himself into strange small spaces when needed. But that was different from having tonnes upon tonnes of rock surrounding him, threatening to collapse in at any moment. In reality, he knew he was safe; in fact, he was probably safer here than anywhere else in the country. But despite this, he still wanted out, even if just for a moment. Just to take a breath of fresh air, that was enough for him. 

Revan turned the corner, heading down another identical hallway. It was so boring, oh so boring, plain and flat everything was the same. At least the reason he was here was far more interesting. This virus which had taken the District in its clutches made the demand for Peacekeepers even higher. And with the subsequent uprising at the hand of the people, they needed something - or someone - special to help bring the top leaders of the rebel group, called the Cohort, down. So, here Revan was, in the rocky peaks of District 2, a place that hated him and all he stood for. But he wouldn't be here much longer; he'd already gotten his mission over with. 

This daydreaming haze of thoughts left him as he arrived before a large metal door at the end of the hallway. It was different from the doors which led into the dorms, being thick and metallic instead of flimsy and wooden. Revan fumbled with the keycard hung around his neck. He scanned it beneath the card reader, and the door cracked, open a breeze of cold fresh air sweeping over him. Pushing the door open further, he stepped into the outdoors for the first time in days. His boots crunched in the hard-packed dirt path as he shaded his eyes from the bright light which shone through the clusters of leafless trees surrounding him. It was peaceful, better than the turbulence of the past few days. Coming to a stop beneath one of the trees, Revan paused for a moment, leaning his aching back up against the tree as he pulled the cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one soon after. It had been a long day, but one which he'd remember for many years to come. 

* * *

The high rooftop looked out over the city before Revan. It was empty, deserted really, lonely and grey. Although he knew otherwise, there was life within this city, it was just yet to make itself apparent. 

Somewhere within the walls of this fortress of a city was his target, someone who went by the name of Reign Legatus. He didn't know who this someone was exactly; all Revan knew was that he was the leader of the Cohort, the cause of the uprising and rebellion which had occurred here in District 2 due to the virus which had swept through the District. Just a few months prior, the Peacekeepers had reclaimed the Tombs back from the clutches of these rebels, pushing them back into the still locked-down city. They'd captured many of the Cohorts leaders in the retaking of the Tombs, but yet the one they'd been gunning for had escaped them. 

So they'd brought Revan here, as a sort of trial run. He'd never actually been brought on a mission before; yes, but this was his purpose what he was trained for. Sure, he’d never been on an actual mission, he’d been taken on mock runs yes but Revan had never been left to his own devices. But here he was, atop a gleaming building gun by his side. Revan certainly was not thrilled about this - how could he of all people be thrilled about being a Peacekeeper - but he still felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through him. 

Oh, how thrilled did he feel, with a gun in his hand. How powerful. It was sickening what a weapon in the hands of a person like him could do. 

And it was time to put that power to good use, at last. A sudden humming noise rang through his earpiece, startling him out of his thoughts. "What is it?" Revan muttered to himself, or maybe to the wind, or to the commander he knew was on the other end of the line. 

"The target has entered the building, and he doesn't appear to be armed. You know what to do," the familiar voice of Anton, his commander, responded. 

"I'd tell you to wish me luck but we both know I don't need it," Revan responded, a grin spreading across his face. Before he could finish his sentence, the humming noise which signified the open line cut off. Revan sighed; nobody ever appreciated his comedic genius around here, as the Peacekeepers ran a tight and very serious ship. But to put it simply, he didn't care enough to abide by those serious standards, at least not fully. He'd never been good at following rules, and that certainly would not change any time soon. 

Standing up from his hunched position, Revan spun on his heel walking back to the door behind him. As he walked, he checked himself over, making sure all of his assorted weapons were still attached to his armour. Being a special forces Peacekeeper certainly had its perks, one of those being superior armour, and weapons. Rather than having to deal with the heavy, clunky and most of all highly noticeable white armour of the standard Peacekeepers, Revan had a lighter, sleeker black outfit. Its mobility was certainly better than the cumbersome white armour and he intended to test its full functions out today. He pushed the door open, securing his helmet on his head as he did so. 

Revan's footsteps echoed ever so slightly as he ascended the stairs quickly, soon passing through another door and finding himself on a wide-open floor. The building seemed to be some sort of office building, with rows upon rows of empty desks and cubicles. It was eerie, the maze-like office seemingly having been abandoned, not a person in sight. Revan was alone. Or well he was alone, as the elevator across the floor let out a ding, reverberating in the high ceiling of the room. Revan moved quickly, ducking behind one of the flimsy cubicle walls, listening to the heavy footsteps of the approaching man. Gripping his dart gun firmly between his hands, he waited for the figure to grow nearer. As the figure passed by him, heading towards the door which Revan had exited just minutes prior, he raised the gun in his hands, aiming the tranquillizer for the man's back. 

Revan pulled the trigger, expecting the firing of the dart, to take his target down and out easily. But there was no firing, no dart, just cold silence until Revan let out a string of expletives. The gun had jammed - of course it had to do this right then and there of all times and places. The man spun around as Revan attached the gun to his belt again, drawing one of the knives attached to his person. 

"What the fuck are you-" the man began, but Revan cut him off, throwing the knife. The man ducked, drawing some sort of short sword from beneath his cloak. Revan drew two more knives as the man closed the distance between them quickly. Revan didn't exactly understand why he didn't at least try and run - he might've had a chance at escaping had he run - but Revan was certainly not averse to a fight. Fighting was what he was trained for after all, and he was damn good at it. There was a reason he was here and nobody else was. 

The man stopped just in front of Revan, taking a deft swing at the Peacekeeper. Revan wasn't sure what he was expecting; District 2 was once filled with trained Careers, and even if this man hadn't trained as a teenager, there was likely somebody in his Cohort who could've taught him how to fight. Whatever the case was, the level of skill and intensity the man fought with caught Revan off guard as he took another swipe at the Victor. This one glanced off one of the plates of armour covering his ribcage, grating horribly against the plating. 

"Hey! This is new, don't fuck up my brand new armour!" Revan grumbled as he responded with his own counterattacks, ducking under the taller man's strikes, jabbing one of the knives into his opponent's thigh. The man gasped loudly and doubled over, dropping his sword as his hands grasped for the hilt of the knife. Revan took the opportunity to drive his elbow up into the man's face, a satisfying _crunch_ accompanying the impact. The taller man’s hands went to his face, but before they could reach his injured nose, Revan pulled a pair of magnetic handcuffs from his belt, slapping them on his opponent's wrists. Revan kicked the discarded sword away, grinning smugly at his handiwork. "Not bad eh? You put up quite the fight-" Revan said, turning away with a satisfied grin. Before he could finish his sentence, something cold and metallic pulled across his neck from behind. Revan let out a choked gasp, fingers clawing desperately at the cool links tightening around his neck, mind racing too quickly to figure out where exactly the other man managed to get a weapon from. 

He couldn't breathe, _he couldn’t breathe-_ not a wisp of air could get to his lungs. What could he do? He didn't have any weapons within reaching distance, other than himself. 

Himself. 

His body was a weapon he could use. 

The man was pulling so hard that Revan's feet were lifted off the ground and he fully intended to use this to his advantage. With his last bits of energy, Revan reeled back his foot, kicking out. The heel of his boot connected with the hilt of the knife which was still stuck in the man's leg. He let Revan go, and both toppled to the ground hard. Revan coughed, air reentering his lungs rapidly as he rubbed at his throat and the grey from the edges of his vision faded. He dragged himself to his feet, drawing the tranquilizer gun again. He lined up the shot, pulling the trigger, he stopped squirming soon after going limp. Revan continued coughing and rubbing at his tender neck as he turned on his earpiece. 

"You take him down?" Anton's tinny voice came through his ear alongside the humming noise. 

"Yes sir," Revan choked out hoarsely, "why didn't you send anybody in to help?" 

"Ah, just a little test to see how you'd perform on your own," Anton replied, audibly chuckling. Revan could've gotten hurt or worse; what was his life, a joke? He knew he meant nothing to the Capitol, but he thought they might put at least a little effort into keeping him alive after all the time they'd put into training him. 

"Wow, thanks you obviously have so much faith in me," Revan snapped back, his voice's strength beginning to return somewhat, although it was still weak. He could hear Anton laughing on the other end of the line as the doors behind him burst open, a wave of Peacekeepers filing into the room. They quickly surrounded him in a tidal wave of gleaming white as they collected the target. As his fellow soldiers began taking the man away, Revan got a good look at his face. In reality, his opponent was a teenager, by the looks of him not much older than he was. And so Revan watched, a black swan amongst the sea of white, ever the odd one out. 

This was not Revan's first fight, and it would not be his last. And Revan did not know it, but this would not be the last time he crossed paths with Reign Legatus. 


	3. 3: History Maker

**_Omega Riley, 27._ ** **_  
_ ** **_Victor of the 200th Hunger Games._ ** **_  
_ ** **_February 24th, 210 ADD.  
_ **

* * *

Walking through the ruins of what was once his home District, Omega couldn't help but think about what could've been. 

District 2 could've won the 207th Hunger Games. They could've ended the dry spell of Victors. They could've continued functioning as normal, competing with 1 and 4 as always. 

But that was not to be. 

No, what was to be was their demise. The death of a third of their population, no legitimate volunteers for two years running. 

The iron District had fallen far from their former glory deep into the pits of despair and ruin. But that would change. This year was the year things began to turn around. This was the year they once again reclaimed their throne. But the revival of District 2 wouldn't get done with him sitting around on his ass being useless. Dragging himself to his feet, Omega looked around the cluttered office surrounding him, papers and notebooks and books scattered haphazardly around him making the already cramped office seem even smaller and more claustrophobic than it was to begin with. 

Omega didn't know what he'd expected when he took over as the head of training. He'd seen what it'd done to his predecessor; yes, the official cause of death was the virus, but everyone who was anyone knew Achilles Kingston died from stress. He'd overworked himself for the sake of the Academies, and he'd paid the ultimate price. 

That would not be Omega's fate though. He would be sure of it. 

Making his way to the large wooden desk nearby he couldn't help but think of what was to come. They'd be choosing their volunteers in the upcoming weeks and they had to make it count. Sliding into the chair behind the desk - one far too big for him, one not meant for him - Omega felt his mind wandering. 

Could he be the one to fill the gaping hole which was left to him? Could he be the one to stitch what remained back together and could he hold those stitches closed? 

Would he be enough?

The phone on the desk before Omega rang, startling him out of his thoughts. Who could be calling at this hour, he wondered, as his eyes passed over the watch at his wrist. Just as he thought, it was late, oh so late. But that did not surprise him; he'd been here hour after hour past midnight so often - too often. And whoever was calling him would only keep him longer. Omega debated ignoring the call, just wanting to finish reading over the few papers he had left and go home. But his curiosity got the better of him; he was not an easy man to get a hold of, and whoever it was must be important. 

And so, he picked up the phone and brought it to his ear. 

"Hello?" Omega asked, the words falling from his lips on an instinctual whim. 

"Mr. Riley?" A high, unfamiliar voice responded. It was strange; usually the only people who had this number were those he knew, and Omegacertainly did not recognize this voice. A thought crept into the back of his mind, planting a seed of blossoming paranoia which would only grow as the woman continued speaking. 

"Is this Mr. Riley?"

"Uh- yes that's me. What do you want?" 

"If you would please check the door, there's someone who would like to speak to you." Before Omega could get another word out, there was a click, signifying that the line was closed. 

The door. Who could possibly want to speak with him? Was someone here to attack him? Kill him even? He was, quite frankly, sick and tired of people trying to kill him. He was a Victor! He was supposed to live a cushy life of luxury with no thought towards how he could possibly end up dying next. He signed up for the Hunger Games, yes, but they didn't tell you what would come after. Even if you won, your life was not guaranteed to be safe. 

Even if you won, you would not return the same. 

Grabbing a small knife from the table nearby, Omega stood and made his way to the door across the office from him. As his weak hand grabbed the doorknob, he gripped the weapon tightly with his strong hand. And with that he opened the door, heart pounding in his chest. 

What met him on the other side was not surprising. Two figures stood before him, faces obscured by the dark shadows of the dimly lit hallway around them. Omega was ready to move at the drop of a hat before the right-hand person stepped forward into the light. 

It was President Snow. 

The sight of her startled him as he backed up, nearly tripping over a nearby pile of books. The President pressed onwards, walking further into the office as the figure behind her followed. It was a Peacekeeper - or, at the very least, someone who looked like one. The armour was Peacekeeper-like in nature, although rather than the usual white, the figure was clad in ebony black. Omega had heard rumours of who this new elite fighter was and what their purpose was, but he didn't know anything for sure. There were only rumours and whispers. 

"Omega, please compose yourself. It's just me," President Snow said, an amused undertone to her voice as she looked down on him sprawled on the floor. Rubbing the back of his head, Omega dragged himself to his feet, picking up the small dagger, just to discard it on a nearby table. 

"What are you doing here? And who the hell is that?" Omega grumbled, gesturing to the nearby Peacekeeper. Snow looked to her bodyguard before shaking her head slightly. 

"Nevermind who he is, he's here to protect me," Snow said. "You can go wait outside." With those words, the strange Peacekeeper nodded curtly before stepping out into the hall. 

Omega shakily made his way to his desk. What could the President possibly want from him now? He didn't think he'd done anything wrong, but as he slid behind his desk, he couldn't help but think that that was certainly a possibility. 

"So, what are you here to talk to me about?" Omega asked, folding his hands on the table before him to hide the slight tremors running through them. 

"I'm here to deliver you some news, and ah, this," Snow said, sliding a manilla file across the desk to him. Omega took it in his hands, flipping it open. For the first time that night, what met his eyes did not surprise him. 

"You caught him?" Omega muttered, gesturing to the picture of the man - no he was only 17, the  _ boy  _ before him. Reign Legatus, leader of the Cohort, the group that had seized control of District 2 and its Tombs for three years. Omega knew him well, as he was the one who was appointed to negotiate with their leader. It wasn't by choice - there were probably dozens of people better to talk than him - but it was what the young leader had requested. He didn't know why Reign had requested to talk to him in particular, but Omega had obliged with no questions but curiosities just the same. 

And so Omega would negotiate. Not just negotiate but talk, and over the years he'd gotten to know the boy. He'd known Reign’s grandmother, Lavina Legatus, as she'd been the one to mentor Omega through his Games. With time, he'd managed to talk the rebel leader down, and Omega convinced the Capitol to supply the remaining inhabitants of the District with the needed supplies, food, water and when it was ready the vaccine for the virus. The last he'd heard, the Peacekeepers had captured most of the rebels, but they were still tracking down the last few. And now, it seemed as though they had them all. It was over. 

District 2 could really start to rebuild now. 

"Yes, we did," President Snow replied. "The boy requested to be made a Peacekeeper, but due to his crimes, we can't allow that." 

"So what are you gonna do with him?" Omega inquired. He figured he would be killed for his crimes or something of that sort. It wasn't like you just presided over an entire District for three years, killing hundreds upon hundreds of Peacekeepers, without any consequences. They had to make an example of those who went against the system, and if that meant killing those who went against them, then so be it. 

"Next year, when he turns 18, he'll be sent into the Hunger Games. And you'll be the one to mentor him." 

"You want me to mentor him?" Omega asked, his jaw practically on the floor. He knew he was a decent mentor, but there were better in District 2 than him, Victors who were older, wiser, more experienced. 

"Well, yes. You're the only one who's managed to actually get through to him," Snow replied, raising an eyebrow. "Is there anything wrong with that?" 

"Well, no, but is he even trained? If not there's no hope for him," Omega muttered, placing his head in his hands. Of course he would get stuck with this responsibility. He hadn't even managed to bring home a single victor and now he was the one who had to mentor the leader of the opposing movement as he went into the Games. Omega doubted Reign would make it out, given the Capitol’s vendetta against him, and that would only stain his reputation more. Could he do anything right? It sure didn't seem like it. No matter what he did, it would end in nothing but pain and ruin for those he was supposed to take care of, for the tributes he was supposed to bring home. 

He was nothing but a failure to those he swore to protect. 

"He might be, he might not be; that's for you to find out. He put up a damn good fight against the guys we sent after him," Snow replied, leaning back in her seat. That was hardly fair to District 2; they expected warriors, those who had a chance at winning. District 2 had become a complete and utter joke, not to be taken seriously. If they sent someone completely untrained into the Arena, they would only come across as more foolish than before. 

"So you want me to train him and get him ready for the Games in a year?" Omega asked, standing and beginning to pace behind his desk. 

"Yes, precisely. If anyone can do it, it's you," Snow said, her eyes meeting his. At this moment Omega realized something. This was not a request; she was not here to ask him to train Reign. 

This was a demand. 

“Okay. I’ll do my best,” Omega replied, holding his hand out. The President took it, shaking it firmly, then turned on her heels and left.

Omega felt strange as he watched President Snow leave his office. It had been a strange day, after all, but it had also been a strange month and an even stranger few years. But soon that strange feeling gave way to a drive and determination that had been building in Omega, who was ready to do his due duty to District 2. It might have been his fault that Two was in the situation they were in, but he would be the one to fix it.

This would be his year. Their year.

The year District 2 reclaimed their iron throne.

  
  
  



	4. district 1: credence

**_Chiffon Shivaan, 18._ ** **_  
_ ** **_District 1 Male._ **

* * *

Chiffon reached out a hand, his long white sleeves fluttering around his wrists as his fingers stretched towards the hand waiting for him. He braced himself, using his grip on Pomela's hand to pull himself onto the roof above. As his feet hit the roof, Chiffon gracefully straightened up, brushing himself off as he turned to his friend who stood nearby. 

"Not a bad view, is it?" Chiffon asked as he swung the bag he was holding off his shoulder, placing it on the ground before him. He couldn't help but be impressed by such a view himself, even though he'd seen it hundreds of times. The skyscrapers and buildings of District 1 stretched out far in front of them, neon lights shining brightly in the dark of night. If he could, he'd paint it on a canvas, hang it up in his room to look at. But that was just the problem: stars were not meant to be hung on a wall, captured by a canvas. 

"It's nice, yeah, but is it worth skipping a party that was thrown for you?" Pomela replied, sitting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over the edge. 

"’Course it was worth it, I do what the fuck I want," Chiffon replied, digging through his bag looking for the things he wanted. "If that means skipping out on a party thrown for me to have fun on my last night here, then so be it." 

"This is what you call fun?" Pomela chuckled. In fact, it was what Chiffon did for fun, as his most recent passion was graffiti. He was quite fond of it, and although he may not have been objectively the best at graffiti, in his mind there was no better art form. Chiffon knew that his parents never approved of his chosen performance art, especially not when compared to his brother Tulle's proficiency in more traditional art forms. Vandalism wasn't exactly something his parents approved of, it wasn’t the fine art they’d wanted him to be proficient in (not to mention that it was illegal), but Chiffon couldn't bring himself to care. He'd never been caught - and he never  **would** be - and in his opinion, the fun outweighed everything else.

"Of course it's fun. Why else would I go dragging you up here?" Chiffon replied, shooting a grin towards his best friend as he wrapped one hand around the can of spray paint he'd been looking for and the other around a bottle of champagne which he'd nabbed from the party before they'd left. 

"I don't know, because you can't go more than five minutes without needing to talk to someone," Pomela reached out, taking the bottle of alcohol he offered her. "Where'd you get this from? It looks expensive." 

"That is not true! And I stole it from the party. I doubt they'd miss it anyways." 

"Yeah, you think that, buddy," Pomela responded, cracking the bottle open unceremoniously. Chiffon turned to the nearby brick wall, half covered in a mural he'd been working on for weeks by that point. He'd hoped to have finished it before he had to leave, but that would not be the case. But it wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. Chiffon had all the confidence he'd be back within a few weeks to finish the twisting, swirling, interconnected mural he was oh so proud of. 

The pair lapsed into silence- well, about as much silence as you could get in a place as busy as District 1. There was always some sort of noise being made, whether it be the clattering of the street cars running throughout the city at all hours of the day, the hum of the street lamps, or music coming from distant clubs. This, accompanied by the familiar sound of spray paint hitting the wall and the acidic smell which was so familiar, combined into a symphony of comfort and familiarness. The kind of familiarity that kept him company, kept him busy no matter what. Tomorrow it would not be there; tomorrow Chiffon would be on a train heading to the Capitol. It was what, despite his parents’ protests, he'd been training for for six years. He was ready, more than ready; Chiffon knew for a fact that he was. 

He would be returning from those Games alive. There was no doubt about it. 

Stepping back, Chiffon looked at the newest addition to the half painted wall. It was a large cluster of interlocking circles, looking like nothing in particular. But regardless of what it may or may not look like, Chiffon was happy with it. He spun around on his heel to say something to Pomela when he realized there was something strange about the atmosphere. The look on Pomela's face said it all as he moved to peer over the edge of the building.

"Are those Peacekeepers?" Pomela asked, her words slurring ever so slightly. They were indeed Peacekeepers, guns in hand, their shining white armor practically glowing, contrasting against the warm haze of light cast by the streetlamps. Ever since the citizens of District 2 had taken refuge in their District, the Peacekeepers had been patrolling even more, buckling down to keep the restlessness to a minimum. 

"Yeah they are. C'mon, let’s get the hell out of here before they see us," Chiffon replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he took Pomela by the hand. The pair took off to the back of the building, soon finding themselves on the old creaky fire escape. Chiffon kept a tight hold on his friends hand as they quickly descended, eventually reaching the alleyway just a few stories below. They continued running through the alleyway until they hit a nearby street which was all but empty and deserted, not a single soul in sight. 

"You're an idiot, you know that? What if we got caught." Pomela said as their pace slowed to a walk. Chiffon dropped her hand as he burst out into loud, echoing laughter. 

"You think we would've gotten caught? With me there? Have a little faith. I've never been caught," Chiffon replied. laughing between his words. It was, frankly, ridiculous. There was no way somebody like him would ever be caught; he was far too smart, far too athletic. There was a reason he was chosen as the designated volunteer this year. 

"Yeah, yeah, let’s just go home. It's late." 

"So? Tomorrow is reaping day. We get to sleep in anyways." 

"I know, but I still want to go practice at the studio before the reapings. Do you wanna come with me?" 

"Of course, Pom, I wouldn't miss it for the world," Chiffon said, ruffling his friend’s hair as they walked, shoulders brushing together with each step. If there was one thing he would miss from home, it would be Pomela. They'd been friends for years, longer than he could remember, having lived in the same apartment building for all their lives. It would be strange without her by his side. But he had faith he would make more friends along the way. It was in his nature after all; he couldn't help but attract people in droves, whether it be for his looks, his personality, or a combination of both. 

The pair continued walking, making idle chatter about whatever it was that friends made idle chatter about. When they arrived at their building, Chiffon dropped Pomela off at her door, parting with promises to meet up at their usual place the next morning so Pomela could squeeze one last dance practice in with Chiffon as her cheerleader before he left. 

And so would come the part of the night Chiffon was much less excited about. Returning home was like a roulette, like spinning a wheel to see if any of his family members would accost him or if he would be able to escape to his room without running into anyone. Would he be facing his parents, their inherent disappointment and detestment for his lack of traditional artistic skill? Or his brother, the only person he could ever truly say he was jealous of, the golden child who had hogged all of their parents attention away from him? Or maybe all three of them, if he was particularly unlucky. 

Pushing the door open to the apartment, Chiffon could tell he was in for an interesting night. The lights in the entryway were still on, and as he crept through the halls towards the kitchen, he could hear the familiar sound of his brother’s music playing quietly through the walls of their home. If Tulle's music was on, it meant he was doing something of "importance" (although as far as Chiffon was concerned, his art was everything but important). But at the very least it meant he wouldn't be seeing his brother that night. 

But he would not be so lucky; as Chiffon approached his parents' workspace, the door was open with light spilling from inside the room. He softly padded by, casting a curious glance through the doorway as he moved past. Inside was his father, hunched over at his desk, paintbrush in hand. He looked up at Chiffon as he walked by, as if some sort of sixth sense had alerted him to his son’s presence. Their eyes met briefly, a look of dejection crossing his fathers face before he turned back to what he was working on. 

Chiffon was nothing but a disappointment to his parents. He'd grown up to be nothing that they wanted him to be, and everything that they didn't want him to be. But Chiffon didn't owe them anything. He would prove himself in the Games, not to them, but to himself. 

As soon as he was done with these Games, he'd never need the approval of his family again. All Chiffon Shivaan ever needed was himself and this was his time to shine brighter than all of District One.   


**_Mystic Hanemann, 18.  
_ ** **_District 1 Female_ **

* * *

Mystic gripped the controls of the machine before her, the gloves which covered her hands slipping on the smooth plastic. She squinted up at the screen in front of her, hitting the button which prompted the machine to start the game. The screen blinked and the menu faded away, revealing a new screen. Small obstacles popped up, in the shape of trees and rocks, dotting the 8-bit landscape. A small sprite which Mystic knew to be her materialized at the bottom of the screen, emulating what she thought to be a Peacekeeper. Finally, a few trains appeared amongst the obstacles near the top, moving haphazardly around, winding between rocks and trees. She took aim, navigating the small sprite back and forth and pressing another button to shoot at the trains. Her shots consistently hit their targets, breaking the trains up into smaller groups until they had all been wiped from the screen. 

“One down,” Mystic mumbled to herself as the second level loaded up. The first level was never all that hard, but then again, Mystic Hanemann was the best in the district at this game. Unbeatable in fact, just as what was expected of a Hanemann. Absolute perfection. 

The second level soon loaded, the colours of the obstacles different from the first, the neon pinks and green having turned to purples and blues. The obstacles were more tightly packed, harder to shoot between, but Mystic knew she’d ace it regardless. The same trains appeared, but larger, and there were three of them instead of two. Mystic once again took them out with ease, clearing the level almost as quickly as it loaded. She continued to dominate level after level, each shot just as calculated and perfect as she. 

Everything was going to plan until the sixth level presented itself. This was where it usually started to get harder, as enemies were introduced, coming after her little Peacekeeper sprite. She managed to clear the sixth level, narrowly escaping with all three of her lives. She advanced onto the seventh, which she did lose a life on, but she didn’t worry. Mystic never needed to, as she knew she could rely on her skill. She’d always been more of a doer than a learner. She couldn’t sit still and listen and have somebody tell her what to do; no, she had to get up and do it herself. After all, if you wanted something done right, most often you had to do it yourself, and Mystic was certainly not averse to getting her hands dirty if it came down to it. She had been chosen as the designated volunteer, alongside the Shivaan boy, for a reason. 

The eighth level was passed with ease, and she moved onto the ninth one. She lost another life here, and her tight grip only grew tighter with each moment. One more level, one more life. As Mystic rolled the tenseness out of her neck, the tenth and final level loaded. It was complete and utter chaos, nearly impossible to track, but she was trained for this: trained to keep calm in the face of complete and utter pandemonium. If she could apply that training to this situation, then that was for the better. 

But the final level proved to be too hard for even Mystic. Halfway through the level she was taken out, the game over screen blinking in a painful shade of red.

“Come on!” Mystic grumbled, releasing her grip on the controls and shaking out her hands. She took a moment to compose herself, watching as the leaderboard presented itself to her. Thankfully, she was still on top, and by a very large margin at that. 

“You aren’t gonna win the Games if you play like that,” Ferd called from the wall nearby where he’d been watching her play. 

“What, you don’t have any faith in me?” Mystic shot back, arching an eyebrow in disdain. 

“No, I have complete faith in you. You just don’t get redoes in there.” 

“I won’t fail in the Arena, Fern.” 

“I know, I know, but you know how I feel about you going in there in the first place.” 

“I’m aware of where you stand on the matter. There’s no need to remind me,” Mystic sighed as the two made their way out the doors of the arcade. Mystic and Ferd had been friends all their lives, pushed together by their parents as they both held a great deal of power - or, more accurately, their parents’ families did. Mystic’s family built up companies and businesses and invested in several large corporations, just to sell them off and live in comfort for the rest of their lives. Ferdinand’s family ran one of the companies they’d invested deeply in, and so it was in their best interest to get along. Mystic had always felt the need to compare herself to the other boy, to compete with him even though she didn’t need to. Mystic felt she had to push herself to be better than Ferd, to be better than everyone else around her, whether it be because of her parents expecting nothing but the best from her, or because she expected nothing but the best from herself. 

Mystic had to be perfect. No, she was perfect. There was no doubt in her mind that she wasn’t. 

“Alright, alright, if you insist. You know I’m always more than willing to share my opinion,” Ferd said as they turned off the stairs onto the sidewalk. Thankfully, the Academy was only a few blocks away from the arcade, which is why she was able to visit it so frequently. 

“I know, you like to share them even when they aren’t relevant,” Mystic replied. She pulled her stark white jacket around her tighter, the spring air warmer than winter but just as fierce, threatening to pull her hair from its braided crown. The two lapsed into silence, only the sound of the whistling wind filling the air, covering the nearly awkward silence. 

As they rounded a corner, the Training Academy came into sight. Mystic could well remember the first time she’d laid eyes on the large, overly grandiose building. She’d been a kid, no older than five or six, out in the town with her parents. At the time, she had no desire to train or to become a victor; no, she was set to become her parents’ successor, smarter and better than they ever were or ever would be. But that all changed when she turned twelve That was when Mystic found out she was not an intentional child. 

No, Mystic was an accident. 

How could somebody perfect be a mistake from the start? 

And so Mystic felt the need to prove herself. To prove to the universe, to whatever had put her there that she was not an accident. That she could be more than anyone else. That she could be a Victor. 

That she was perfect after all. 

“I’ll see you after training,” Mystic said, turning to Ferd and pushing those thoughts away. She couldn’t afford to spend time on such grimy, dirty thoughts. They would not get her anywhere.

“Yeah, have fun,” Ferd mumbled, turning and walking off down the stairs. Mystic was very aware that he didn’t like the training, the pageantry, the gore of it all. He was one of the few in District One to hold such beliefs. It wasn’t exactly acceptable, and so it wasn’t an opinion he often shared. Mystic got insight into his opinions for some reason, either that they were close friends or that he felt the need to make Mystic aware of it because of her volunteering status. Whatever the reason, she could care less about it, as she knew regardless of what he thought, Ferd had her back. He always did, and he always would. 

Mystic stepped into the training academy, the bitter wind giving way to warm air and a familiar, comfortable chatter. Cluttering the front hall were groups of people talking amongst themselves. Mystic could spot kids of all ages, from the youngest twelvies to the seventeen year olds, all vying to be what she was. As she took steps further into the room, heads turned to look at her, loud voices quieting. Everyone in the room envied her, wanted to be in her position and Mystic didn’t want it to be any other way. 

Heels clicking on the marble floor, Mystic forged onwards through the hall, head held high. She quickly enough made her way into the locker room, changing out of her regular monochromatic outfit to her similarly monochromatic training clothes. Mystic found there was a certain kind of charm to such a colour palette, and so she exclusively wore clothing in shades of white, black, and their middle ground of grey. She put on her shirt, pants, socks, and shoes, leaving the most dreaded part of the process for last. The gloves which covered her hands slid off easily, considering what they concealed. Her hands were covered in scars, white and raised and  _ ugly _ . Mystic turned her hands over, revealing the large calluses on her palms from her gauntlets and training. Her hands were her sole flaw, and so she covered them. 

Nobody could know that Mystic had any imperfections.

Finally ready for training, she stepped out of the locker room onto the training room floor. It was time for Mystic Hanemann to show everyone else what perfection looked like. 


End file.
